Writing down my fear in permanence

Writing down my fear in permanence,
Because the only thing I have to fear, is myself.

I wasn’t even sure I was going to do NaPo this year, which is ironic, right? A whole month dedicated to poetry, and I'm supposed to be a poet. But I think, deep down, I was afraid. Afraid I wouldn’t live up to the expectations I’d set for myself; expectations I hadn’t even fully admitted were there.

Fear has a way of doing that. Of creeping in, twisting things until they don’t make sense, making you second-guess what you love. It lingers in the air we breathe, in the moments we hesitate, in the weight of the unknown. It’s irrational, consuming, and sometimes impossible to escape.

So this month, I want to explore fears & phobias. Not just my own, but all kinds. I want to write about what it’s like to live with a fear that can dictates every moment, from hesitation to panic.

What do you fear? Why do you fear? What is fear to you?

Pre-NaPo. Fear Is Sleeping in My Bed

I. A poet bleeds ink
II. I refuse to let rest find me
III. Don't look at me like that - Scopophobia: Fear of being perceived.
IV. Lost in translation - Fear of not being understood.
V. The crime of being small is a crime I can’t forgive. - Arachnophobia: Fear of spiders.
VI. expiration dates. - Fear of never being loved. 1/2
VII. I can’t fear something I've never had. - Fear of being loved. 2/2
VIII. 80% More to fear in this world - Thalassophobia: Fear of the Ocean.
IX. How many shots does it take a man to forget his family? - Methyphobia: The fear of alcohol.
X. Where is my night light? - Nyctophobia: Fear of the dark.
XI. The brightest shade of fear - Xanthophobia: the fear of yellow.
XII. This is not a knot, it is a noose. - Gamophobia: Fear of marriage.
XIII. Mom says Sam-e is my best friend - Angrophobia: Fear of anger.
XIV. Fourteen Days - Obesophobia: fear of gaining weight.
XV. Occasionally the ocean stares back. - submechanophobia: fear of submerged man-made objects.
XVI. Don’t forget about remembering me. - Athazagoraphobia: fear of being forgotten.
XVII. The distance between the ground and I - Acrophobia: Fear of Heights.
XVIII. Deuteronomy 10:20 - Theophobia: The fear of God.
XIX. Dying and Death are two different things. - thanatophobia: fear of death.
XX. I am nothing more than the birth of ruin. - Anthropophobia: fear of people or humans.
XXI. That sums it up. - Arithmophobia: Fear of numbers.
XXI. I’m writing, please look away. - Scriptophobia: Fear of Writing in Public.
XXIII. She loves me, she loves me not. - Anthophobia: Fear of flowers.
XXIV. Home Sweet Home! - Oikophobia: fear of home environment.
XXV. #ff8a00. - Chrysophobia: fear of the color orange.
XXVI. She is only a ghost of me. - Phasmophobia: Fear of ghosts.
XXVII. All the stars. - Astrophobia: Fear of outer space.
XXVIII. Untitled. - Claustrophobia: fear of being in confined.
XXIX. If you go first. - Fear of losing a loved one.
XXX. I've written my fear in permanence. - phobophobia: Phobia of phobias.

Pre NaPo poem

Title: Fear Is Sleeping in My Bed

Spoiler

The hallway stretches like a held breath,
longer at night than it ever is in daylight.
boards groaning under my weight.
The light from under their door flickers,
a warning, a trap,
or maybe just the TV humming.

Behind me, whispers coil around my throat,
"Don't knock."
"He’ll be mad."
"Just go back to bed."
soft warnings in my siblings’ voices.

Fear flickers against the walls,
its shadow shaped like my father,
tall and sharp-edged, waiting for me to fail,
waiting for me to prove
that I am still small.

I clutch the hem of my nightshirt,
fingers curling into cotton like they could
hold onto courage, like fabric
could be enough to shield me from the dark.

My room used to be closer.
Now it’s up where the roof swallows the stars,
where the wind hums lullabies through wooden ribs,
where the spiders know my name.

I had a nightmare.

The kind that stays even when you wake up,
pressing its weight into your chest,
sitting heavy in the silence.
I just wanted to ask them, just this once,

"Can I sleep with you?"
But I know the answer.

"You’re too old for this."
"You’re a big girl now."
"Big girls face their fears."

So I turn, step by step, back to the attic floor,
where fear waits for me in the doorway,
where the moon doesn’t reach,
where the thing from my nightmare
is sleeping in my bed.

I. A poet bleeds ink

I am afraid of writing.
Afraid of what ink admits,
How it spills secrets I was never ready to tell.
Afraid that once a thought is written,
I can never take it back,
That every letter is a confession,
Every line is a locked door.

I do not write. I unravel.
I lay myself bare in words that feel too fragile,
Too open, too much like a crime scene waiting for judgment.
I do not hold a pen; I hold a knife,
and each sentence is another cut,
Another place for the world to wound me.

I write myself into corners of doubt,
Into rooms with no exits.
My words scream, "Am I good enough?"
Every poem I birth feels lifeless,
A half-formed thought gasping for air.

I see other poets painting masterpieces with their pain,
and I wonder if my grief is too quiet,
if my fear is too small to deserve a name.
I trace the lines of their poetry like scripture,
and mine-
Mine feels like a crumpled prayer no one wants to read.

That was my first mistake.
Setting my own expectations too high,
Convincing myself that anything less than perfect was a failure,
That if my words did not shake the earth,
They were not worth speaking.

I am terrified that my voice is too small,
The success is measured by the weight of my words,
Chained beneath the weight of a goal
I never even spoke aloud.

Maybe it is not a confession, it is not a crime.
My words deserve to take up space.
Maybe this fear is just another poem waiting to be written.

II. I refuse to let rest find me

The sun slithers through the blinds, an Intruder in my room,
spilling itself over tangled sheets,
peeling back the covers as if it has a right to see me,
as if it knows what I’m trying to hide.

"Why don’t you rest?" Sleep whispers.

I lie still, but my mind writhes,
trapped beneath the weight of the air, the press of the mattress,
the way my own skin folds over itself,
a quiet, inescapable suffocation.

-

Nine years old, a plastic fork clutched in my hand,
staring down at an empty plate like hunger is a sin.
My stomach twists, tightens, a raw and pulsing thing,
knotted like fingers around my wrist,
dragging me back to the memory of his voice.

"You're a pig."

Even now, I flinch at my own reflection,
I look into the mirror and watch as it lies to me.
Showing me the way my flesh moves when I turn to fast,
The ripples of something I wish would go still.

-

I sleep on my back, arms pinned to my sides,
pressed together like something unclean,
something I wish I could smooth away.
as if flattening myself into nothing
might make me weightless.

Even alone, I hold my body like a confession,
fold into myself like an apology I was born knowing how to make.
By the time my ribs ache from sucking in air
I never let expand, I throw off the blankets,
tell myself it doesn’t matter,
that I’m not that tired anyway.

"Why don’t you let yourself breathe?" Sleep murmurs.

Later, exhaustion will crawl into my bones,
settle behind my eyes, press against my skull
like hands that know how to hold me down.

But I’ll stay standing,
my bones stacked like the remnants of a ruined cathedral,
my spine, a pillar trembling beneath its own weight.

Sleep sits at the edge of my bed, tilts its head, asks again:
"Why don’t you take naps?"

I do not answer.

because my confessions were never meant to be caught.
because in truth, maybe my father is right.
Maybe the mirror doesn’t deceive; maybe I do.

TW: Graphic imagery and Body dysmorphia

Spoiler

STOP STARING.

(but they aren’t, are they?)
or maybe they are.
maybe they always are.
maybe they never stopped.

Eyes like knives, slicing through my skin,
digging in deep enough to expose the flesh beneath,
a slow incision, cutting me open for their amusement.
Taking inventory of every misplaced piece of me,
mark my imperfections like checkboxes:

Too loud. Too fragile. Too much to handle. Too desperate.

I fold into myself like crumpled paper, edges worn,
creased from years of trying to take up less space.
(small. smaller. gone.)

My hands tremble, my voice tight with the taste of iron.
I don’t speak. I don’t make a sound,
if I breathe too deep,
they’ll hear the rasp of my own blood,
dripping off my tongue heavy with my own shame.

A mirror is just a window turned inward.
A window is just a mirror turned outward.
Either way, someone is watching.

I am glass, I am glass,
I am an open wound on display:

“You look tired.”
⌊Translation: you look ugly.⌋

“You’ve gained weight.”
⌊Translation: you failed again.⌋

“Why don’t you talk more?”
⌊Translation: perform for us.⌋

They mean well. That’s what they tell me.
That’s what I tell myself.

As if well-meaning words don’t carve like scalpels,
a serrated edge, slicing away the pieces of me they don’t like,
layer by layer, until I’m just a pile of bones,
left dissected, discarded, displayed.

It’s a slow, unbearable horror,
to exist beneath a microscope, under their gaze.
my flesh is pulled taut,
my veins laid bare for inspection.
shaped until there’s nothing left but what they want to see.

I have learned that love has conditions,
And some of us didn’t fill out those forms.
Even my own reflection feeds on me,
peeling away at the fragile skin I still wear.

I taught myself that silence is the best kind of invisibility,
that the safest place is the corner of a room,
to hide in the dark where they can’t see me,
where I can be nothing.

Because if they cannot see me, they cannot pick me apart.
(but they will anyway.)

(click, click, ..-)

The - -.-- .--. . .-- .-. .. - . .-. is supposed to tell my story.
Supposed to lay my words down straight,
like bricks in a road leading somewhere safe,
but some of the -.- . -.-- ... are stuck.

Some of them click,
and nothing comes out but dots and dashes.

(click, click, -.)

I try to say ... --- -- . - .... .. -. --. but it comes out garbled,
a mess of ... .. --. -. .- .-.. ... no one can decode.
You nod like you understand,
but your . -.-- . ... give you away,
you’re just waiting for your turn to speak.

(-.., click, click)

Somewhere between my -- .. -. -.. and your ears,
my words get lost, tangled.
a fishing line knotted beyond repair,
and I can’t tell if I’m the one pulling too hard
or if you just never wanted to .-. . . .-.. me .. -.

(click, click, .)

I say, “.-.. .. ... - . -.,” but the world replies, ”what?”
I say, “- .... .. ... / -- .- - - . .-. ...!” but the world hears static.
A chorus of misunderstandings,
a symphony of -. --- - . ... that never sound quite right.

(click, .-. click)

I rewrite my words, ... --- ..-. - . -. them,
fold them into paper -.-. .-. .- -. . ... hoping they’ll fly,
but they only fall.
weighted down by misinterpretation,
by the .-- .- -.-- no one ever reads past the first sentence.

(click, click, ...)

I speak, and people hear what they want.
I write, and they skim for what fits their ... - --- .-. -.--
I scream, but it’s swallowed by the air.
an inkblot mistaken for .- .-. -
a - .-. .- -. ... .-.. .- - .. --- -. without a source.

( click, - click)

I want to be read in the language I was .-- .-. .. - - . -. in.
To be ..- -. -.. . .-. ... - --- --- -.. not just tolerated.
To have my words mean what I meant.
To have my ...- --- .. -.-. . be more than just background noise.

(Click, .- -. -.. Click.)

Do you hear me now?

Because I have been trying,

-.. . ... .--. . .-. .- - . .-.. -.--

to be understood.


***

Translation:

Spoiler

(click, click, U)

The typewriter is supposed to tell my story.
Supposed to lay my words down straight,
like bricks in a road leading somewhere safe,
but some of the keys are stuck.

Some of them click,
and nothing comes out but dots and dashes.

(click, click, N)

I try to say something, but it comes out garbled,
a mess of signals no one can decode.
You nod like you understand,
but your eyes give you away,
you’re just waiting for your turn to speak.

( D, click, click)

Somewhere between my mind and your ears,
my words get lost, tangled.
a fishing line knotted beyond repair,
and I can’t tell if I’m the one pulling too hard
or if you just never wanted to reel me in.

(click, click, E)

I say, “Listen,” but the world replies, ”what?”
I say, “This matters!” but the world hears static.
A chorus of misunderstandings,
a symphony of notes that never sound quite right.

(click, R click)

I rewrite my words, soften them,
fold them into paper cranes, hoping they’ll fly,
but they only fall.
weighted down by misinterpretation,
by the way no one ever reads past the first sentence.

(click, click, S)

I speak, and people hear what they want.
I write, and they skim for what fits their story.
I scream, but it’s swallowed by the air.
an inkblot mistaken for art
A translation without a source.

( click, T click)

I want to be read in the language I was written in.
To be understood, not just tolerated.
To have my words mean what I meant.
To have my voice be more than just background noise.

(Click, A.N.D Click.)

Do you hear me now?

Because I have been trying,

(desperately)

to be understood.

They say you eat eight spiders a year in your sleep.
a myth probably, but sleep is ruined anyway.
because now I know they wait in the dark,
spun between the ribs of my bed frame,
dangling like thoughts I don’t want to have.

I know what it means
to shake out my shoes like a ritual,
because once, my sister's screams
ripped through the house like a knife,
a spider curled inside her shoe.

She didn’t check.
I always check.

Shake them out, tip them over,
slam them against the wall.
Still, I see it, waiting.
Because they wait, don’t they?
Between the laces, beneath the bed,
inside the folds of my blankets,
behind the thought that I am alone.
Now, I never trust the dark of my own belongings.

I’ve heard that some spiders
can jump fifty times their body length.

Do the math.

That means the distance between it and me,
is not a distance at all.
The same non-existent distance between
My boundaries and it.

They thrived in my bedroom.
They were in the corners,
on the floors,
on the walls,
always somewhere, always nowhere.
crawling just outside the edge of my vision,
their webs stretched like veins across the ceiling.

I remember one on my pillow,
so close I felt its phantom steps
lingering hours after I threw the pillow away.
My skin never stopped remembering.

And yet, I hesitate.
I can crush you in an instant.
And yet, somehow, we are both afraid.

You do not scream when I raise my hand.
You do not beg when I swing the shoe.
You just pause,
a creature so small, so ancient,
older than me, older than this house,
older than the idea of fear itself.

Because I know it is just looking for a home.
Because I know it does not mean to send
a shiver down my spine,
does not mean to make my breath catch
like a fly in its web.

Still,

Guilt seeps in like venom.
I whisper an apology
to the tiny body curled in death.

Mercy would have been letting it live.
Fear said otherwise.

I say “I love you” to my reflection,
just to test the weight of the words.
To hear how they land,
to see if the walls will say it back.

They don’t.

I watch lovers in grocery stores,
debating between two brands of bread like it matters.
like their world is stitched between expiration dates,
not between the fear of waking up alone.

I wonder if that’s what love feels like?
So ordinary, so assumed.
I wonder if they know how lucky they are,
standing in checkout lines, hands touching without thinking.

I think, I would settle for someone who loves me like a bad habit.
Something familiar, easy to ignore but harder to let go.
Not their favorite, not their first choice,
But still something they return to, even when it’s lost its warmth.

Maybe I was meant to be passed over.
The contract for love expired before I could sign.
It was a one-time offer; no renewals, no appeals.

People tell me, “you’ll find love someday.”
The same way they say, “you’ll learn to like tomatoes.”
But I think love is an acquired taste.

I think some people are born with it, wrapped in it,
never needing to prove they deserve it.

And some of us-

some of us are standing in grocery aisles,
hands outstretched toward expiration dates,
wondering if we are already past ours.

AWWW THANK YOU SO MUCH @Avian <3<3<3 Same goes for me XD, I subbed to all the thread so I wouldn't miss out on the beautiful poetry, safe to say my notifs are chaos. :'D

I'm really trying to incorporate new writing styles, and playing around with my poetry lately so I'm glad it's all coming together well! (I'm such a depressing poet in April RIP) I'm happy you're enjoying my poetry, keke!! <3<3

I stand ten feet away.
Not far enough to be gone,
but far enough that you can’t see the parts I keep duct-taped together.

Any closer, and I’d have to admit I’m not as whole as I pretend to be.
Not just the smiling shape of me you’ve memorized in kindness.
I stay quiet, still,
my fingers pressed into my palms as if they’ve forgotten
how to be open.

I want to hand myself over, open-palmed,
to just spill everything onto the floor
and say this is me, look anyway.

But what if you look too long and start to notice
the cracks I keep trying to paint over,
the way I shrink when affection lingers?
It’s not you I don’t trust,
it’s the idea that anyone could see all of me; and still choose to stay.

You call it self-sabotage.
I call it protecting my peace.
But I’ve spent too long learning how to thrive in silence,
I don’t know what to do with love that speaks.

I’m terrified that you love someone who isn’t truly me.
It’s not because I’ve been pretending,
but because I’ve only let you see the parts I can manage.
You are falling for the version I put forward,
because it feels safer than the truth.

And yet, you keep pulling at my strings,
untangling me in the dim light of your eyes,
like I'm something worth unraveling.

You ask me to stay in the moment,
to trust what’s in front of me.
But I know how people change their minds,
how promises shift in the dark,
how someone’s “always” can turn into “I tried.”

I want to be brave.
God, I want to be brave.

I want to meet you in that space where vulnerability lives,
but I’m afraid you’ll hold my heart like a mirror
and only see your reflection.
And when you finally notice the flaws,
the parts that can’t be fixed,
what then?

It’s easier to keep you at arm’s length.
I tell myself I’m doing it for myself,
for my peace,
even if it’s the peace of a prison I’ve built myself.

I'm standing ten feet away.
wishing for something I don’t know how to handle,
and you keep telling me you love me,
but I wonder if you’d still say it
after you’ve seen the parts I’ve spent years learning to hide.